An attempt at artistry.

Zwölf Uhr dreizig in der (die? Static or Dynamic? Damn you insufficient knowledge of German) Nacht. I said goodnight to my girlfriend fourty minutes ago, but found myself unable to sleep. By the virtue of boredom and inabillity to drift off, I decided to try to compose something worhty of publishing here, to the frantic delight of my stable fanbase.

I have for the last four weeks, resided in Kiel, Germany. I've been a good boy and gone to school every day, and have not been drinking excessivly. I have done homework, and laboured to keep my now long distance relationship in good health. I have shopped for shoes, and I have spent money I do not have. I have not shaved, but I rarely do anyway. I have grown tierd of Geramany, and wish for home. Wednesday I will head back to whiter urbtures. It will be glorious!

If someone were to burst through my door to save me from a raging fire that had gone unnoticed by me, they would find me sitting in my rented bed, wringing my brain for pretentious things to say and an adequately ostentatious manner to express them. I would look up at them, carefully chewing on a fruit that, prior to processing, has a slight similarity to a discoloured penis, and politely sugest that they ought to look out for the various puddles of sand that spice up my otherwise boring floor. Tom Waits, casually masticating pebbles in my ear, would have to be abandoned in favour of my survival.

And so, having run out of pointless dribbel to practice my english on, we arrive at what one could call the point of this post: My most recent attempt at creativity and artistry. A magnificent feat of parody and humour. I present to you, my beloved reader, a Blake and Høyland cooperative effort (with the former being wholly unaware of his parttaking in the project): 'The Cougar' (first and likely final draft)!

Cougar! Cougar! prowling nights
'Neath the strobing party lights,
What primordial lust or vice
could fuel thy vicious appetite

On what distant groins or eyes
Burnt the fire of thine thighs?
O' what girth does it require?
What hand dare quench the fire?

And what shoulders, & what heart
Will twist when faced with thy art?
And when that heart beats with pace?
What rushed speech, & what flushed face.

What of ball and what of chain?
In lust's furnace burns thy brain.
What man will, with what dread gasp
Dare your heated body grasp?

When your star threw down his spear
And watered havens with its tear
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the bed make thee?

Cougar! Cougar! prowling nights
'Neath the strobing party lights,
What young Adonis, fresh in eye
Dare frame thy waning symetry

William Blake: The Tyger!
Urban Dictionary: Cougar

Now, if you excuse me, I must converse with a bottle of gin with regards to the possibility that sleep is hiding somewhere close to the bottom of the bottle.